Before the Storm
by Okami-chan
Summary: Originally Privileges of Rank. G1 AU SPCCverse. A collection of slashy character studies to explore motives and relationships, though these relationships may not appear in SPCC. Chapter 2: War consumes everything and dissolves friendships. Hound/Bluestrea
1. Privileges of Rank

**Author's Notes**: So, I'm changing this into a series of slash stories that predate my _Silver Purity, Cursed Crimson_ fic. I also plan on (eventually) uploading the start of a series of non-slash (/vastly understated slash) stories for that same fic. Ultimately the intent of any and all these is character developement (or just plain setting up their relationships in my head).

Privileges of Rank

**Summary** Prowl attempts to soothe Ratchet after Wheeljack blows himself up, again. Prowl/Ratchet.

* * *

Prowl stood in the entrance of the med bay, watching Ratchet work on the burnt and partially melted form of Wheeljack. The medic wasn't cursing, or yelling at his best friend, and so the tactician surmised that the inventor was no longer in danger. He took in the dim glow of Ratchet's optics and registered the heat of an overtaxed engine. He moved closer, keeping his steps as quiet as he could The smell of stale energon, drew his attention to three empty cubes on a berth nearby. He pursed his lips at that; normally Ratchet kept a much tidier work area.

His doorwings twitched and he made his decision. With deliberate care, he tapped his foot against the floor, letting the CMO know he was there.

"I heard you when you came in." Ratchet didn't even lift his head, sparks flashing up from the open area he currently tended. "I'm a little slotting busy, Prowl. Can this wait?"

Prowl considered the question, and answered with one of his own. "How is Wheeljack?"

Ratchet narrowed his optics. "He's fine, now." The CMO's engine growled his irritation. "For all that he tried to blow his frame out of his slagged casing. What was he doing anyways?"

The red chevron tilted. "Classified. Will he be stable for a few megacycles?"

"Classified?" Ratchet grunted. "Classified, using energon crystals?" Ratchet fingered shards of purple glass, scowling. The medic's gaze finally turned on Prowl. "It'd slagging better be worth this."

"He has yet to fail us." He met Ratchet's glare with an even stare. "Will he be stable for a few megacycles?" he asked again.

"Yes he will, and what are you fragging implying?"

"That I do not wish to see you start failing us." His expression softened, though he kept his distance from the sterile operating table. "You need to recharge."

"After I'm done-"

"No." He gestured sharply, refusing to listen to the rest of Ratchet's procrastination. "Now. You are too valuable to be allowed to succumb to exhaustion from overworking yourself."

Ratchet glared down into Wheeljack's open torso.

"I will turn it into an order, though I prefer not to." Prowl twitched his doorwings again and attempted to entice the medic with suggestive humor. "The berth is cold without you there, as well."

The CMO scowled at the tactician. He wavered slightly and finally set his tools down, closing the open panel. As if it was a signal, Prowl approached the medical table. He touched Ratchet's arm, a silent apology for his harsh words. Ratchet ignored the tactician's hand, but stared at his own.

"I'll be right out. Gotta clean up a little."

Prowl stepped away and left the medbay, trusting Ratchet to keep his word.

He was not disappointed as a few breems later, the doors parted to let the big white mech step through. The medic almost blended into the white-lit room; his blue optics and gray chevron painting an ethereal picture as they hovered over a bodiless windshield and red hands. Shadows almost seemed to fade into existence as the door slid close behind the medic.

The CMO logged off the active personnel channel, officially going off duty. A smile tugged at Prowl's lips as he did the same.

They walked down the hallway, side by side. Though they remained close, they didn't actually touch. Yet even to a casual observer it would be obvious that the two were together.

Prowl's doorwings shifted, avoiding brushing against the light armor of the medic. Due to the number of mechs within the base, even Prowl had to share his quarters. Jazz was actually his originally assigned roommate, but too many disagreements(long and very loud, though they never came to blows) had prompted Prime to order a change of living arrangements.

Ironhide would have been next in line for the privilege. Since he and Ratchet shared the same rank, it hadn't taken much convincing to have the security officer switch with Ratchet.

The results were satisfactory, very satisfactory in Prowl's mind, and well worth the effort.

"Is there anything I can do to help Wheeljack?"

Prowl turned his head to regard the CMO. "I really wish you could, Ratchet, but you're security clearance is just not set high enough."

"Frag security clearance to the slagging pits," the white and red mech spat. "That's my friend you're talking about."

"I know," Prowl pressed his lips together. "It would be a lot easier if you had higher clearance."

They arrived at their shared quarters, Ratchet reached his longer arm over Prowl's head to key in the release code and open the door.

"Than give it to me."

Prowl stepped in first, turning as soon as the door closed. "I would prefer not to have this conversation with you while we are off duty."

The medic's engine grumbled, but he dropped the topic even though Prowl calculated an unsaid 'for now' on the subject. He opened a door in the wall, unlocking a subspace pocket that revealed a small stack of energon cubes. Next to the set of subspace cabinets hung a pair of gladiatorial blades, their selenium blades sparkling sharply; one of the few trinkets Prowl had left over from the destruction of his previous unit, and the base they'd chosen to hide in.

Prowl watched as his lover reached up and took a partially drained container down. "Ratchet…" He knew the purpose of that particular grade of energon, and he didn't think it was what his partner needed.

Ratchet drained half the contents of the cube and offered the rest to the tactician.

Prowl reluctantly accepted the container and finished the rest of the high grade off. He immediately felt it buzzing through his systems, his regulators working on directing the energy, or storing it for future use. The cube vanished with a carefully placed discharge, disposing without creating waste.

Red hands turned Prowl's face up. White lips latched onto grey, moving with a tenderness that never seemed to attach itself to the words the medic spoke.

Prowl reached up, pulling Ratchet's hands away from his chin. He stroked the fingers lightly, gingerly; teasing sensors designed to detect the smallest of bumps and irregularity.

A shudder clattered along the plates of the large white mech and his intakes and vocalizer hitched. The glow of his optics intensified, burning with desire and he drew the smaller mech closer.

Prowl guided them toward the two berths that were pushed together against the wall, still stroking one of the medic's hands, while his free hand caressed panels or circuitry. They collapsed onto the berth, limbs tangling around each other. Lips played across heated metal, nipping at corners and seams. Ventilators hissed in soft gasps as hands dug into bundles of wire and fingers ghosted along circuitry.

Fingers swept across specific panels that obligingly slid aside, exposing a coiled cable and a hidden port. So accustomed had they become to being together, that they didn't even pull away as they drew the other's cable into their own port. The soft chink of the plugs connecting made them both gasp as though it were the most erotic thing possible.

Data streamed through the connection, transmitting sights, sound, touch. Every kiss resonated, every caress teased the giver.

Processor heated with passion, Prowl was able to ignore the discomfort from laying on his back. Even though Ratchet hovered over him, making him moan and whimper with those knowledgeable red hands, Prowl knew just where to touch the medic to make him hiss and cry out in delight.

Prowl recognized Ratchet's attempt to drown the worry he felt for Wheeljack in physical release, but the tactician was uncertain of what other comfort he could offer the medic. He'd been built as a Limited Range Statistic model, as opposed to Ratchet's Full Range Medic model. What emotional protocols he possessed did not tell him how to comfort someone. He hadn't even realized he could experience any affection beyond the barest of friendships before he'd found himself attracted to Ratchet. Still he had since discovered that if he worked around his protocols, using cause and effect, he could manage the motions and ease his lover.

So he did. Offering the reassurance through their interface that Ratchet had done things to the best of his considerable ability, and that Wheeljack was, quite likely, no longer in danger thanks to the medic's intervention. He stroked a hand down Ratchet's face, tracing the medic's cheek seam. Ratchet was nibbling on Prowl's bumper and the tactician pulled on the gray chevron to bring the Ratchet's head up and allow him to kiss the panting white mouth.

The red and white mech clutched at Prowl's plating, his engine thrumming, and his optics flaring. He laughed, only to dissolve into a throaty moan as Prowl dug his hands under the large windshield.

"At least... hmm... you're not- ahh… Primus! -throwing... numbers at... unn. Do that again…... –at me this time," Ratchet gasped in reply to Prowl's transmitted query.

Prowl revved his engine, echoing his lover's amusement.

Prowl knew the worry still lingered as Ratchet grimaced and his optics dimmed, completely at odds with his current actions. But he didn't know what to do, and Ratchet did not respond nearly as well to numbers as the twins(who laughed at Prowl's statistics and scrapped themselves when they didn't listen). That left his touch, and he sought every sensitive area on the medic, sending his confidence in Ratchet's abilities through their connection until they both overloaded in one spark-seizing moment.

* * *

Prowl cradled his head in his arms, finally laying on his front, cushion molding to his frame. He watched Ratchet in the peace only found within his quarters, after the medic fell into recharge. That Ratchet went offline so completely after overloading verified Prowl's calculations that the medic had overextended his systems.

The best chance to prevent it from happening again would be to step away from the war, but that was impossible as the Decepticons controlled 86.273 percent of the planet, and the other 13.727 percent was veritably unlivable. Which eliminated that choice. There was also the fact that it was simply not logical, not to mention unethical, to walk away from his duties among the Autobots, and he knew Ratchet would feel the same way. Even not actively participating in the war, Ratchet would still feel morally obliged to continue his practice on neutrals caught between both sides. But then he would not have the Autobots covering him, as they no longer had the resources to extend their protection to neutrals. Really there was no other feasible option, for the only real result would be for the war to end, but that was within neither of their power.

Prowl turned his processor from that pathway, unwilling to test his battle computer so shortly after an overload.

Blue optics powered on, and a white arm languidly draped over the tactician's back. Ratchet smiled, and Prowl contentedly returned the gesture, moving his cushion closer.

"You and that slagging, silly cushion. You should just let me fix that flaw." Ratchet caressed down Prowl's canopy, rubbing at the uneven joining that pressed into his doorwings and scraped his sides.

"Your time and resources are better spent repairing the battle injured, than overhauling something I have dealt with since my creation." Prowl's doorwings twitched, and he leaned closer to the medic. "And do not think about taking it to Prime." His mock growl rumbled through his chestplate, belied by the grin on his lips.

Ratchet frowned, his fingers stroking down Prowl's armored aft. "I think you're overcalculating the cost, Prowl. And undercalculating how important your comfort is." His gaze drifted to his hand as it slid back up Prowl's back and over to the farthest doorwing. "How can you work efficiently," the word hissed out in amusement as it was one of Prowl's favorite words while on duty, "if you're uncomfortable." Metal scraped metal as the large medic pulled himself closer to the black and white mech. Ratchet traced his lips over the backs of Prowl's doorwings, the tactician groaned, clutching at the cushion underneath him.

"You need to relax, Ratchet. Not-" The smaller mech stopped midsentence as his lover slipped his fingers into Prowl's doorhinge joint. "-this is incredibly un-" Prowl halted again as Ratchet slipped on top of his back, bracing himself on his elbow while his free hand delved into Prowl's other doorwing. Prowl buried his face into the cushion, muffling the cry that exploded from his vocalizer.

Ratchet leaned forward to press a kiss to the back of the tactician's neck. "I am relaxing."

Prowl turned his head to look behind his shoulder, blocking access to his neck with his helmet. "I meant recharge." He narrowed his optics. "And you know that." He lifted his doorwings, effectively trapping the medic's hands.

Ratchet glared, attempting to pull his fingers from the tactician's door joint. "I don't particularly feel like slagging recharging right now. Could you fracking let go of my fingers now, Prowl!"

"Negative. I want to know what is disturbing you. Overloading again will not make the problem go away."

"Fraggit Prowl, let go!"

Prowl tilted his head, a soft smile curving his lips. "Wheeljack will be fine. You would not have left the med bay if you did not know this." He relaxed his doorwings, freeing his partner's hands. "I would not have asked you to. I would not have had the authority to." He did not want to talk of this here in their quarters, but he saw no other way to ease the medic.

"He's my friend. If I could help him-"

"Then accept the promotion." He moved his cushion away from Ratchet; his circuits cooling.

"Frag the promotion, Prowl. I can't." Ratchet rolled to his back, and not for the first time Prowl registered the disadvantage to having doors attached to one's shoulders. It was the closest he could come to envy, as jealousy lacked any logical reasoning. The medic glared up at the ceiling, his optics dimming in reaction to the lights overhead.

"So you have said every time the issue is brought up. We cannot force you to take the promotion, but I have always wondered why you refuse." Prowl lay his head on his arms, his optics dim, but his doorwings stood upright attentively.

A sigh rasped from the large white mech's vents. "Because I can't comply with the responsibilities that come with that promotion."

Prowl's doorwings twitched. "How would it be any different than your noncompliance with regulation now?"

The white arms crossed, tucking the medic's hands under his bumper, and he slid a glower at the tactician. "What you want is for me to breech patient confidentiality. Why do you think Smokescreen doesn't accept any promotions?"

Prowl had never known why his fellow Enforcer had never accepted a grade raise. Certainly both Ratchet and Smokescreen deserved the promotions they were offered, and both he and Prime offered it every evaluation. Jazz and Wheeljack had both achieved the highest grade possible for their fields, and within this army. Prowl had always assumed Smokescreen had no desire to share any of Prowl's datawork, or take the brunt of the tactical meetings. Ultimately, it meant that Prowl thought his frame-kin was lazy, and the executive officer had no respect for laziness. It reflected itself in his interactions with Smokescreen. This put the red and blue mech in a different light, and made Prowl reevaluate the way he'd been treating Smokescreen.

"That is a problem that Optimus and I can address. Your informed input on Wheeljack's projects would be most welcome. Asking for your opinion without giving you context has been most.. irritating. I imagine it had something to do with why Wheeljack ended up in your care twenty joors ago." Prowl moved his hand, caressing the red cross on his lover's shoulder. "Would you accept the promotion then?"

"No."

"No?" Prowl stared at the medic. "Why?"

"I _can't _take a promotion Prowl. It's bad enough that I have the word 'Officer' tagged onto my position. If I were to take the grade that should go with the position, than I wouldn't have to worry about what they're bringing into my med bay, but what they're _not_ letting me repair." Metal squealed, and Prowl could hear the minute hum of motors working. Ratchet was clenching his fists. He cared a great deal for the the unit and patients within it that was placed under his care. At Times like this, it showed. "Primus, slaggit, I don't want to have mechs who don't know a sensor cluster from a circuitboard messing around in their own circuitry when they try some slagging new stupid stunt. Or in _each__other's."_

Prowl blinked in surprise. "You believe this would be a problem?"

"I _know_ it would be a problem. They didn't bring the really stupid things to the unit doctors, they brought it to us interns. There is no one else for my unit to turn to. I know we're short handed on medics, but..." Ratchet trailed off, static hissing out of his vocalizer.

"We could call in a junior medic from one of the other units. Would you accept the promotion then?"

"_Interns_," Ratchet growled, refusing to use the more modern term, "don't know a Primusdamned thing. No."

Prowl's engine rumbled in amusement. "Are you admitting to not knowing anything at a point in your existence Ratchet?" His processor redirected itself, now that he had a reasoning behind what he'd always thought of as one of his lover's irrational choices.

"It does not seem to hamper Jazz's connection to the unit."

Ratchet's optics blazed, and his engine ground out a growl. "Do I look like Jazz?"

"If you were Jazz, not only would we not be having this conversation, but we would not be having this conversation on either side of the room." His doorwings swept back in amusement back as Ratchet continued to glare at him.

"Frag you, Prowl," the deep rumble of the medic's engine vibrated through the double berths, betraying his good humor.

Prowl got off his cushion, and crawled over to the larger mech. "I suppose that only leaves one choice."

The azure optics of the CMO watched the tactician draw near. "And what might that be?"

Prowl was silent for a moment, indulging in a kiss that Ratchet returned after a few astroseconds consideration.

"Prime and I might have to rework the security clearances."

Ratchet blinked. "Red Alert is going to fry a processor... or two."

The tactician allowed himself a slight smirk. "I know." The Security Director's reactions never ceased to amuse him.

"It's about slagging time you did something about this, though." The red hands appeared, uncurled from underneath the medic's bumper. He reached for Prowl, his desire clear in the darkening of his optics. "Can I overload myself to slotting oblivion now?"

Silver lips curled in a smile as they caressed the white face. Prowl's engine growled as he wordlessly slid atop the white frame.

* * *

Author's Note: This actually comes from contemplation on just why Ratchet (the freakin' _Chief Medical Officer) _is ranked lower than Wheeljack. It does tie into my ongoing fic, _Silver Purity, Cursed Crimson_, though I need to do a rewrite of it since Prowl refused to contract any of his words, and then he brought up model types. -sigh-

Since it's been asked, I'd like to point out that the rank Prowl's referring is strictly numerical and grade-related. Ratchet has the title, but he's ranked like a unit medic, and this keeps him from being included in the high security topics.


	2. Fingerprints

**Author's Note**: This takes place long,long,loooooong before the events in _Privileges of Rank_. As a matter of fact, there will be a long-ish, yet-to-be finished non-slash story to accompany this someday. (Codename: That Damned Bluestreak Fic) And that takes place pretty much directly before this and is even kinda sorta referenced in here. (Chronology-it's overrated). My head is currently full of empty (normally it's filled with the voices that tell me the stories I share with you), and this has been sitting around unfinished long enough me thinks.

Fingerprints

**Summary ** The tide of the war slowly changes and as it does friends must part ways. Before that happens can two friends become more?

* * *

Hound watched as Bluestreak sorted through his rather meager personal belongings. The grey mech seemed oblivious to Hound's attention. His dull blue optics turned from one item to another, grey hands picking up the trinkets one at a time and handling them with the sadness of one contemplating their worth. The grey doorwings twitched up only to flick back down, a gesture of regret. But what did Blue have to regret? Hound didn't know. He knew his own regrets, he knew them every time he looked upon the fine form of the gunner. He knew the regret of never having taken the chance to grow as close as he would have liked with Bluestreak. He knew the regret of never having the opportunity to breath in more than whiffs of his scent. Never having the chance to play his fingers over the chevron on his forehead, or knowing the grain of paint on his doorwings.

Hound sighed, turning to finish his own packing. He fingered the trophy that he'd won shortly before the war for a tracking competition held in Kaon. It went into subspace, a souvenir of a seemingly forgotten time in this era of war and strife. He simply didn't have the desire to finish his packing. He could have stood there for so many breem just watching the precise movements of the gunner, watching as he knocked over a tech chess set they'd been playing. It amazed him that the mech who had so much ability with a gun, could be so clumsy with his hands. Bluestreak laughed it off as a different targeting system than the one he used for his rifle. They had spent the past recharge cycle comparing their civilian and base programming to the new military protocols they had installed. That had been a good time for Hound.

They would both be departing in a megacycle. Prowl was taking the gunner with him to a new outpost in Straxus while Hound would depart with Ultra Magnus' unit to Helios. That time, so far away, so close, might very well be the last time he'd see the gunner.

He worried for Bluestreak.

The grey mech had turned almost into a berserker on the battlefield; his optics would burn with a ferocity not normally seen in the gunner. When his rifle ran low on energon and his missiles had been used up, he would charge out onto the field and lash out at any Decepticon in his way. He always claimed that he was simply seeking a replacement for his own weapon, but Hound knew better, more than once he had seen the rage that twisted the gunner's face. It was almost like he'd begun imitating the twins, having spent too much time in their company.

It frightened Hound.

He hated seeing his friend coming back to basecamp with far more damage than his position could account for. Apparently the twins thought so, too. Hound had stopped them once from slamming the gunner around after the last time Bluestreak had spent a megacycle in the medbay due to his whirlwind fury. They had succinctly told Hound to 'frag off' (Sunny) and that if 'Blue' was going to be stupid enough to get slagged on the battlefield when by all rights he shouldn't have, then he had it coming.' (Sideswipe)

Sideswipe and Sunstreaker. A veritable glitch in everyone's processors. They were both feared and respected. Everyone had been saved by them at least once. Everyone had been beaten by them, at least once. Yet it seemed that after an initial mauling (no doubt some crazy initiation rite they'd concocted) if you left them alone, they would leave you alone. Any further brawls would be a result of their having been antagonized to the point of fury.

Hound left them alone, for the most part.

Oh sure, he would laugh and joke with Sideswipe and he admired Sunstreaker's eerie perfection (from afar), but he didn't seek out their company. He honestly thought any who did might have a malfunction, like Mirage, or that junior medic... First Response? Ah, yes, First Aid. Those two further bemused him by seeking out _Sunstreaker_ of the two Toughlines.

These thoughts carried him back to Bluestreak, as one of those who sought out the twins' attention on a much more intimate basis. He knew that some of Bluestreak's recharge cycles were spent in their berth, indeed he'd heard the gunner request it of Sideswipe once.

The look Sideswipe had given the gunner in response had been like a wrench in Hound's gears. It was the look given to one that meant the world to the twin; a look often reserved for Sunstreaker, and received by no other.

That look had been the ultimate variable in Hound's decision _not_ to mention his attraction to Bluestreak.

The twins extended an unusual tarp over the gunner, giving him the support off the battlefield that Bluestreak gave them on the battlefield. Quite likely that lent to their unusual closeness, as Bluestreak's talkative mannerisms had always seemed to annoy both of the twins (one to a lesser degree than the other). Hound could only imagine what 'Prowl's Bodyguards'-the two that followed him through battle and ensured no Con ever touched him- would do if they discovered the tracker messing around with their berthtoy (Hound couldn't think of them as lovers, it struck his spark to do so).

"Is there something wrong, Hound? Have I got something on my face, or is something hanging off my doorwings, again?"

Bluestreak's voice drew Hound from his thoughts with a start, making the scout realize that he had been standing there staring at mech for quite some time. Hound quickly came up with a response, noticing the dimness of the gunner's optics, and the low height of the doorwings.

"I was wondering if you'd like a bit of a boost?"

Bluestreak smiled in appreciation. "Oh, were you feeling a little low? I know sometimes I just stare at things when I'm feeling low and don't even realize it till someone says something like I did to you just now, but I would really appreciate a boost, if you don't mind picking one up for me while you're out getting one for yourself. Thank you."

"Certainly Bluestreak."

"Oh, Hound?" A pause as the gunner ascertained he had the green mech's attention. "I'm sorry to be a bother, but do you think you could also see if they have any sulfur additives, I know we were low, but..." The doorwings shrugged in with helpless craving.

"I'm not sure they'll have it. You know how some of the minibots like to hoard." Hound smiled to reassure that saddened face. "But if I see any, I'll put it in."

The smile he received was well worth it. The smile he would receive when he brought back the energon with the sulfur additive would be a gift from Primus. He wasn't terribly worried about where he would pull it from. He actually had a supply of it in his subspace, hoarded for the times he desired a little more to his energon.

He made his way down the hallways and toward the dispenser alcove that connected to the lounge. It permitted anyone to swing by for a pick-me-up without forcing them to go in and be sociable. Hound peeked into the lounge, curious as to its unusual silence. Empty. Then again, they were completely clearing the base out. The Decepticons were mobilizing, and they didn't have the mechpower to halt their advance.

Optimus Prime had called for an evacuation; a retreat. Hound was no strategist, but he knew that did not bode well for the tide of the war.

Perhaps any other commander would have argued Prime's decision, perhaps the two that were stationed here did. However once the decision had been made, neither Ultra Magnus nor Prowl would refute their Prime's command. There was nothing left in Altihex, even the civilian tag-a-longs had long since died or moved on.

Hound paused as his sensors detected the unmistakable trace scents of grime mixed with burning ozone. "Just got back from patrol?" he said to nothing in particular as he filled first one cube then a second.

"About to go and finish my packing. Jazz wanted a few words with me before I joined with Magnus' team. That's where you're going, too, right?" The bodiless voice was accompanied by a touch on Hound's shoulder, and the cube taken from the grey hand.

Hound tapped a flavoring of sulfur into the remaining cube before filling one of his own. "Yeah, I am."

A quarter of the energon vanished into an invisible mouth.

"Mirage… why are you still invisible?"

The cube paused in its travel back to the spy's lips. "I'm filthy. Why are you hoarding energon?" The cube halted again. "Bluestreak?" Mirage ventured to guess.

"We both needed a boost. Packing is tiring."

Silence as that statement was contemplated, the energon sloshing around the edges of the cube as it waved thoughtfully through the air. Finally the cube was lifted, and downed the rest of the way. "Lucky mech, you! Finally worked up the volts?"

Hound tossed a tight-lipped frown in the general direction of Mirage's scent. "No, Mirage." He forced a laugh. "We're both just low. I never knew you could be so crude, Raj."

"Considering my best friend's been fawning over his roommate since he came here, can you really blame me for cheering him on?"

Hound sighed. "There's nothing to cheer on. I'm no competition to either of the twins, I-"

"Primus, Hound." Mirage faded into sight, grimey arms crossing over an acid-eaten chest. The former Towers noble leveled a glare at the tracker. "Don't tell me _that's_ been stopping you this _whole_ time?" Mirage took a step forward, energon forgotten in his other hand as he poked a finger into Hound's chest. "They're not interested in Blue like that. If you had ever asked him I'm sure he would have told you."

"'Raj! There you are! Slaggit where have you been hiding?" As if thinking about him had been enough to draw him out, Sunstreaker strode between the two mechs, imposing himself in front of Hound without even touching the tracker. The golden mech swept his gaze down the blue Slimwheel's frame. "You are fragging filthy." The blue optics suddenly turned to focus on Hound. "What the pit are you doing here?" They narrowed slightly. "Aren't you supposed to be packing?"

"Ah, Sunstreaker, I was just… discussing Bluestreak—"

The narrowed optics turned to veritable slits and Sunstreaker latched onto that one name, cutting the tracker off. "Bluestreak?" One menacing step and the warrior towered over Hound, even though they both stood about the same height. "What about Bluestreak?"

"…and the transfer. We've been here so long, and it's going to be… we'll be missing everyone… you know?" Easy-going Hound didn't normally have such a hard time with words, though he wasn't as adept with them as some mechs, but if anyone could put a glitch in someone's processor, it was Sunstreaker.

The horned visage turned to give the tracker a slit-eyed, sour look. He took another step toward the tracker, practically stepping on his toe joints. Hound stood stiffly in his place, resisting the urge to take that oh-so-tempting step away from the warrior.

A black hand suddenly seized Sunstreaker's shoulder, and spun the golden bot around. Hound caught a brief glimpse of a grin beneath a blue visor, before the daring mech disappeared behind Sunstreaker's frame.

"Sunny, man! I'm so glad yer coming with us!" Jazz danced out of Sunstreaker's arm reach, laughing as the warrior grabbed for him.

Prowl calmly walked between the golden and the green mechs, his doorwings twitching as he retrieved a cube for himself. He walked back again, passing between the two mechs without so much of a glance until he stopped and turned his head.

"Are not you three supposed to be packing for departure?" he said simply before he resumed his interrupted walk toward the medical center.

Jazz grinned at the three mechs, before he realized that Prowl only had one cube in hand. "Slagger, wouldn't it occur to ya t' grab me a cube too!"

"Your hands are not malfunctioning, Jazz," Prowl called back. "and my time is limited."

Jazz shook his head, whipping over to the dispenser for a cube. He paused by the three mechs, ever-present grin fading slightly. "Ain't anythin' wrong is there?" Prowl's executive officer focused his gaze on the golden Toughline.

"Not a thing, sir."

"Good, now don't be loiterin' in the halls." Jazz waved and ran after Prowl, calling the commander's name.

"C'mon, Raj. You're filthy." Sunstreaker turned on his heels, completely ignoring the mech he'd just been picking a fight with. He took the spy by the arm, and guided Mirage away from Hound.

Hound watched the pair, oh Primus, since when had those two been together? Though it made sense if he thought about it. He shook himself and carried the two cubes in his hand back to his quarters.

Bluestreak wasn't with Sunstreaker at least. Could Sideswipe also really not be interested in the gunner? With the way he'd looked at Bluestreak? That particular, bright-eyed, wide-lensed look? What was between the three of them (Mirage had certainly not seemed interested in the gunner, always backing Hound's pursuit of Bluestreak)?

He entered the room, surprised to see Bluestreak sitting on the edge of his berth, staring at nothing in particular. A soft query with the gunner's name and the mech jumped.

"Oh, Hound!" Relief softened the light of his optics. "That took longer than I thought it would. Was there a line at the dispensers? Or did you have to hunt down some sulphur for me, you know I never meant for you to go to that much effort for me, or anything. I probably should have gotten up to get some myself. I was just feeling lazy, even though Prowl says that laziness is never an excuse, wow must be great that you're not lazy, huh Hound?"

Hound handed Bluestreak the cube and quietly listened as the gunner prattled on. He regretted the unexpected distraction that had left the gunner here by himself for so long. Yet as Bluestreak took that first mouthful of sulphur-hinted energon, Hound couldn't help but think it worth what must have been acute silence for the surprised smile Bluestreak had given him. The blue optics had lit with such delight that Hound couldn't help but to smile back. Another gulp and Bluestreak picked up where he'd left off as though there hadn't been a pause.

Rather than stare at the grey mech, Hound turned to his belongings. Picking them up and fingering them, only to lay them on the berth, unsure which he would take and which he would leave. He let Bluestreak's voice envelope his audio sensors, and he savored every bit of Bluestreak's scent that his sensors picked up.

And he weighed the possibility of ruining this treasured friendship for a few cycles of pleasure versus leaving the friendship as it stood. Even if the twins didn't consider him their... lover... Hound couldn't help but feel trepidation at considering what Bluestreak _did_ mean to them.

He looked up, suddenly aware that Bluestreak had stopped talking. He hadn't meant to ignore the gunner like that and opened his mouth to apologize. Bluestreak beat him to it.

"You know, just before you came back, I got the weirdest call from Sunny, asking what we'd been doing. You and me." The blue optics almost seemed to sear into Hound's own. "Why would he ask that?"

Never one to lie, Hound wasn't sure he wanted to admit _exactly_ what Sunstreaker had stumbled upon. "Mirage and I were just discussing the people we were going to be separated from, and you came up because we'll both be separated from you." That danced around the actual truth enough to suit Hound.

Bluestreak tilted his head, taking another swig from his cube. His optics narrowed as he regarded Hound. "No... Sunny wouldn't have been suspicious over something like that." His doorwings dropped, crestfallen. "He specifically made it sound like there was something going on between us."

Hound waited for the inevitable, fervent denial that there wasn't anything going on between the two of them, but Bluestreak didn't continue. He sat on his berth, rigidly, twitching doorwings the only thing that betrayed his tense nervousness (excitement, even?). Hound didn't know what to say. How would Bluestreak feel if Hound said that he hadn't wanted to say anything all this time? Would he understand how Hound treasured their friendship? Valued their quiet moments together, even filled with Bluestreak's babble?

Would Bluestreak, so adept at reading into things, take it to mean that Hound didn't think him worth the time or effort of giving them a chance.

Hound sat there in silence, uncertain what he could say; deny his interest, or admit his cowardliness.

Bluestreak looked away, mouth twisting with inner turmoil. "I mean, I know I'm not the best looking mech around, and I know Sunny can be pretty stupid about dealing with people. But he wouldn't get all worked up over nothing." The doorwings twitched. "And I wouldn't... Wouldn't mind if there was something going on between us, I mean. I know that I owe you a lot for what you've put up with on-"

That moved Hound. He did something he'd never done before. He interrupted Bluestreak. "Stop!" Stunned blue optics looked at him in surprise. "Just stop. The last thing I want is for you to feel _obligated_ to do anything for me. I'm your _friend_ above all else, I'm supposed to give you a shoulder to lean on when you need it. I know you'd do the same for me..."

"Then, why haven't you said anything all this time? We've been here for.. .well for a long time, and you haven't said a word."

It was Hound's turn to look away. "Because I thought you were with Sunstreaker and Sideswipe."

Bluestreak straightened, stiffened as he stared at Hound. Suddenly, unaccountably, he started laughing. Hound rebooted his optical software, unsure whether what he saw was real. It wasn't the nervous laugh of someone hiding behind a smile, or the tight smile that hid away pain. It was _real_; palpable. It pulled Hound to the grey gunner as surely as a magnet.

Never.

Hound had never seen Bluestreak so genuinely happy, or maybe so rarely had he seen it, so fleeting, he'd never recognized it for what it was.

Bluestreak grabbed the hand that Hound hadn't even realized he'd extended toward the laughing face, pulling the tracker down with him. "Sunny and Sides don't like me like that. Sunny hates my colors, and Sides says he gets enough out of one Enforcer to last him an entire vorn."

"Then why do you ask to stay a recharge cycle with them?"

Bluestreak's smile vanished and he dipped his head, chestplate lifting to shield his face in a programmed response to his unease. "Because they bring me online when I have my recharge terrors." His dim optics flashed and he finished off the energon in his cube.

Hound tilted his head, gripping the hand Bluestreak still held. "I can do that, too, Blue, why..."

Bluestreak's face partially disappeared within the shell of his chestplate. "Because I never wanted to bother you with it. You put up with enough from me."

Hound huffed, his engine revving briefly in objection. He slid his hand over Bluestreak's chevron, tugging the gunner's head up so he could look into the embarrassed blue optics. "Blue, you don't bother me. It's never bothered me."

The chestplate lowered, and Bluestreak offered a small grin. "It just never occurred to me that you would want to be anything more than friends. I mean, I really haven't been looking, not since... well not since I joined the Autobots. I haven't really... you know... interfaced with anyone since... since I came to the base." He looked everywhere but at Hound, his doorwings flicking with nervousness. "Sides has kissed me, but only 'cause he doesn't want to tell me 'shut up' not that I'd mind if he did that cause I know I talk too much and everyone's wanted to tell me to shut up on more than one occasion. Really, I think they just consider me like a brother or something, though I can only guess, cause I don't know what it's like to have a brother. Though Sunny's called me that sometimes, and Sides never disagreed. But I know that Sunny would much rather have Mirage in his berth than me and Sides... well, if Sides has anyone, I sure don't know about it, cause I never see them in the twins' quarters, not that I always see Mirage when he's there, did you know that Mirage likes to recharge with his cloak on? I don't see how he gets much of a rest when he's got it on, though, it seems like it would be draining on his reserves. And I'm talking too much again..." Bluestreak chuckled, rubbing his thigh with one hand as the other lay clenched beside him.

"You know I don't mind, Blue. Blue..." Hound paused, not sure he wanted to know the answer to the question that sparked his processor. "I don't want you to feel like I'm forcing an answer out of you. You can think about it while you're gone, and when we see each othe-mmph!"

Blue abruptly caught Hound's lips in a kiss, no passion, no lust; a test, feeling out for emotions, a response, from himself, from Hound.. "I don't need to think about it, Hound, I don't want to think about it." He dropped his chevroned forehead to Hound's shoulder. "If I try to think about it, it'll get drowned out by... by _everything_ else, and I don't want you to be drowned out by that. I'm sick of thinking about things, I'm tired of being alone, and I don't want to wait until I come back, because... because there's a chance that-"

Hound didn't want to hear Bluestreak continue down that circuit. For the second time in a groon Hound interrupted Bluestreak, covering the gunner's mouth with his own. He knew what Bluestreak was going to say, and he didn't want to think it, he didn't want Bluestreak to say it. It was simply too terrible, too real, too possible to have it said out loud.

'_There's a chance that I may not come back._'

Hound didn't want to think about that. He deepened the kiss, his hands lightly stroking down the grey mech's torso plating. Feeling the metal give under his fingers. Delighting in the simple taste of Bluestreak. Hints of energon flavored the grey lips; lips that returned Hound's attentions with equal fervor, with desperation. Bluestreak dug his hands into the winch mounted on Hound's front fender, the agile digits playing over the machinery as lovingly as they did the weapon they were so familiar with.

Hound wrenched his head away, gasping for cooling air as Bluestreak continued his explorations of the tracker's grill. The gunner instead kissed the gaping jaw hinge, his lips trailing down to the cheekguard, one hand reaching up to cup a square audio receiver. Hound moaned at the whining feedback he received from the hand.

Bluestreak's scent enveloped him surer than his words ever had. Hound's systems hummed in pleasure, the tracker leaning forward to take in more of the grey mech's intoxicating smell, to move his hands over the grey chestplate, the doorwings a tempting siren that he resisted for the time being. His hands squealed over the smooth finish of Bluestreak's chestplate, circling over the running lights just above the grey fender.

Bluestreak shuddered, his doorwings shaking enticingly as he squirmed in Hound's arms.

"All I want is for you to be sure that this is what you want. From me." Hound nuzzled close to the mag plates on Bluestreak's shoulder, feeling their hum against his sensitive face. The tracker's hands tightened on Bluestreak's canopy, drawing the source of these erotic sensations closer. He couldn't resist brushing against the hinges hidden under the canopy.

Bluestreak moaned, pulling his hand out of Hound's winch to run over the projector latched to Hound's shoulder. "Yes. Please, it's been..." Bluestreak nipped at the curve of Hound's shoulder ridge, "it feels like it's been forever since anyone..."

The breathy whisper was too much for Hound to resist. He slid his hands up the bottom edge the gunner's doorwings, pushing the gunner down onto the berth. He straddled the shorter mech's thighs, maneuvering around the awkwardly large chestplate to lavish kisses upon the cables of Bluestreak's neck. He eased his hand under the doorwings, feeling every seam, every weld line that scarred the mech's wings. He panted, engine revving in response to the aroused mech beneath him.

Bluestreak seemed so focused on Hound's chestplate, though it should come as no surprised. Even among the medley of model types that made up Prowl's unit, Hound's upper torso was no less a fascinating conglomeration of joints than the Enforcers' doorwings and oversized chestplate. His hands wandered over the hood that made up Hound's upper shoulders, sliding down to swinging socket of his lower shoulder.

Hound pulled Bluestreak's hand away from caressing his shoulder joint, drawing the mech's fingers up to his lips. He drew in in the smell of Bluestreak's hands; the clean scent of well-used, well-oiled motors and joints. He ran his lips over their bends, tasting the ceramic and plastic that Bluestreak had been handling earlier; the ever present smell of Bluestreak's rifle.

Bluestreak's fingers twitched, and he grunted, pulling his hand away. "Ooh, that feels really good, but it tickles, if you keep it up I'm gonna start giggling."

Hound caught the gunner's hand, again, so that he could nibble along the edges of the fingers. "I like hearing you laugh." Hound's engine rumbled, the world brightening with the power surging through his optics.

Bluestreak writhed, giggling, and suddenly motors in his arm started up. The hand vibrated in Hound's grip, rattling against his face and his dental plates. Lighting every sensor they touched afire with the stimulation. Grey fingers dug into the tracker's grill, vibrating against Hound's winch and the grating that covered the intake.

"Ah!" Hound arched his back, grinding their hips together, his hands dug into the padding, a groan choking from his vocalizer. "Blue!" Even the pad smelled like Bluestreak, and the scent wrung itself through the sensors in Hound's hand.

Bluestreak shoved up with his doorwings, rolling Hound off of him, only to encompass the tracker with his arms. They kissed, lips sliding together as their hands wandered over each other's chassis. Hound tasted Bluestreak, every part that he could lay his hands; the clean scent of fuel that traveled within the chest and torso, the lubricated hinges of of the spiked doorwings.

Bluestreak retaliated, his touch shivering through Hound's circuits, pulling needy sounds from the tracker's vocalizer. Bluestreak's vocalizer buzzed and hissed with his own cries, writhing in Hound's hands. Bluestreak huddled over Hound's frame, gasping and twitching as they both learned each others frames, sought out the spots most sensitive to the other's touch.

"You're so quiet, Blue," Hound murmured into the red chevron as Bluestreak nibbled on his tightened his grip on the grey mech; concerned, passionate, all combined into one surge of emotion. "Are you alright?"

Bluestreak laughed, his doorwings lifting to invite attention. "I've never felt better." He locked lips with Hound again, drawing his hands down the seams of Hound's cheek. "Really."

Hound smiled, his optics dimming as he lost himself to the gunner over him.

Even if it was just this once, he wanted to give Bluestreak a memory to come back to, one to combat all the horrors that he faced daily within his own processor and on the battlefield. If only just once Hound wanted to know that he had this memory to keep within his own processor.

Perhaps when they next met, they could look back on this, and continue down this circuit, or they might agree to remain friends.

Hound would be happy either way.


End file.
